


The Girl I Love Is Up In The Gallery

by ClydeThistles



Series: Victorian Music Hall AU - Yennaia [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Flash Fic, Flirting, Flustered Tissaia, Music Hall, Pocket Watches, Tipping the Velvet vibes, Yennaia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles
Summary: Victorian-era watchmaker Tissaia repairs a gentleman's watch for a young lady. Then discovers why she needs such an accessory."The pink of perfection, the gayest of gay,As the dear ladies’ pet was considered ‘au fait’. "The Masher King - 1887
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Victorian Music Hall AU - Yennaia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905364
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	The Girl I Love Is Up In The Gallery

When the bell above the door tinkles, Tissaia looks up from her workbench, stands and smooths her skirts.

“Good afternoon, may I be of some assistance?”

The young woman who has just entered her shop is nothing short of exquisite. She is tall, taller than most women one sees, and her skin is a colour that reminds Tissaia of the butterscotch toffees she loved as a child. A docker or a Mohammedan for a father perhaps? No matter, such things are of little consequence to Tissaia. When she leans on the counter and flashes a smile, Tissaia feels her heart skitter and prays her cheeks are not red.

“Good afternoon. I have a pocket watch in need of repair, this fine establishment was recommended by an acquaintance.”

“How kind, we shall do our utmost not to disappoint. May I see the watch?”

“ _You_ are the watchmaker? I had imagined a gentleman.”

Tissaia is no stranger to this reaction but that does not mean she is used to it; it needles her still. Her eyebrows arch a little,

“This was my late father’s shop, but he taught me his craft and left the business to me. You will not find my skills lacking however I have an apprentice if you would prefer a man tend your needs?”

The woman lowers her eyes apologetically, “Forgive me, it is uncommon to see a woman who is her own master with the freedom to practice a craft. Surprise is poor excuse for rudeness however.” And then she raises her gaze, her eyes are like the violets sold in Covent Garden a penny a bunch, “And I find my needs are tended just as satisfactory, in fact surpassingly, by women as by men.”

This time, Tissaia’s cheeks undoubtedly flame and she runs her thumbnail in a groove of the wooden counter to compose herself.

“Indeed. Well then, let us see what can be done to satisfy.”

The woman pulls out a magnificent watch with gold casing and a mother-of-pearl dial. Tissaia can’t help sighing, her fingers itching to prise it open and acquaint herself with its inner workings.

“An exquisite piece. An heirloom perhaps?”

“No, it is my own.”

Tissaia knows some women favour the new wristwatches but it is not unusual for a lady to wear a watch on a chain. This, however, is unmistakeably a man’s watch. As though she can read her mind, the woman further clarifies,

“I use it as part of my act at the music halls.”

Tissaia starts to work as she speaks, fitting a monocle to her eye and delicately examining the cogs and gears and springs, “I trust you will not be smashing it to pieces only to pull it from someone’s ear? I would need to protest against damaging such a masterpiece.”

The woman flashes another smile, “Have no fear. I am no conjurer.”

Tissaia spies the problem and hums in satisfaction, “Ah yes, you see? One of the jewels on your pallet lever has come away. I can reposition it and everything should run like…”

Tissaia trails off as she realises the stupidity of what she was about to say but the woman just laughs, though not unkindly.

“Like clockwork?”

“Quite so. Now, I must insist on silence the next few moments, it is a delicate task and I would not wish to damage the mechanism.”

The woman assumes an overly pious expression belied by the mischief sparkling in her eyes. But she remains quiet as instructed. When all is mended and the bill settled, Tissaia cannot help herself from enquiring,

“If not a magician then what? An acrobat? You have the legs for it.”

She resists the urge to smack her forehead with her palm, one does not go around evaluating young ladies’ limbs… no matter how much one may be thinking it. But her customer only smiles and produces a ticket from a pocket of her gown,

“Come and see for yourself, gratis as my guest.”

“That’s too kind really, I couldn’t-”

“No arguments. I promise you shall see your handiwork in action.”

And then she saunters out the door, turning to _wink_ at Tissaia who is so flustered she has to sit quietly for a moment, fanning herself and a bottle of smelling salts on standby. She really must get a handle on herself; this simpering is quite out of order.

* * * *

Tissaia has not been to the halls in some time and she enjoys herself immensely. When the chairman smacks his gavel and announces,

“And now, the songbird you’ve all been waiting for. The ladies’ pet, the sweetheart that’s gayest of gay… Ms Yenna Violet!”

The crowd roars appreciatively. This must be the star turn and Tissaia inches forward on her seat in anticipation. And then has to clutch at the railing in front of her because it is the woman from the shop. Only she is not wearing skirts and an elegant chignon as she had been this morning. She is in trousers. Beautiful black worsted-wool trousers with crisp seams and pleats, hugging her narrow hips and outlining her long legs. A tailcoat with silky lapels and nipped in at her waist, her black hair clipped short to her neck and sleek with pomade. And there, draped across the white waistcoat, is the watch chain Tissaia had polished. She sings and dances, winking and blowing kisses and Tissaia has to fan herself again. Her throat goes dry when she sings a sad, sweet song and fingers the chain on her watch. It is part of the act, it means nothing. But her hand dips into the pocket and withdraws the watch, caressing the casing with her thumb as the handsome young swell woefully tells of the lady who scorns his affection. Then, she tilts her top-hat to a rakish angle and finishes with a rousing chorus, the crowds cheering long after she has exited the stage. Tissaia is breathless and her palms sting with clapping, and she knows she is returning tomorrow night. Not that she needs to. The image of those long legs and the neat apex at the top of them so beautifully revealed, is not something Tissaia will forget in a hurry.


End file.
